We have a duck pond. With ducks. And geese.

The country walks around this house are lovely. Some go for miles down the Clyde Valley, through villages like Nemphlar, Tillietudlem, Boghead, and Kilncadzow. The last is pronounced ‘Kil-KAY-gee’. Really, it is. (Aren’t the Scots fun?)

There are shorter, closer walks along fields with rabbits and deer, or through woods with red squirrels, and we have a duck pond just up the road with mallards, gadwalls, and greylag geese. We often stop the car at the pond for a quick once around the pond after running errands. This morning we had to wait in the car for a few minutes until the family of geese had stepped away from the driver’s side doors. (Have I ever mentioned that I am afraid of large birds?)

My intention had always been to spend the second day of my road trip to the Lake District checking out the actual lakes, like Coniston Water and Lake Windermere, and maybe even coming back to the region later in the summer. But after yesterday’s drive through the backroads dealing with blind corners, construction, and, worst of all, cyclists, I had pretty much decided against Day Two of white-knuckle driving. It was a pity, because this area really is every bit as beautiful as its reputation promised.

I was waffling back and forth on this: it was a Saturday, so cyclists would be worse; but better to do this now, early in the season; but those roads were even worse that the roads in the highlands; but you’re already here, for heaven’s sake; and so on, and so on. Finally I decided: (a) I won’t be coming back here any time soon; (b) what if I stuck to the wider, smoother roads, and even back-tracked at one point to avoid the narrower lanes? I told Scout we were going for it (she raised her head from the car seat and gave me a look), and we got off the motorway and headed west toward Windermere.

I was going to miss Coniston Water, my real reason for this trip. You see, I have been a huge fan of the children’s book series Swallows and Amazons since I was a little girl. I still re-read them to this day. And most of them take place on a fictional lake based on Coniston Water. But to get to Coniston meant backroads. On a Saturday. In May. So no go. Then I saw the sign for the village, and next thing I knew I was on a single lane road, driving past the most beautiful, quiet, blue water. Surprisingly, there was no one else on this road; I drove at a leisurely pace, and while I couldn’t park anywhere (the reason the road was empty was that everyone had left their homes early and taken all the parking spots along the roadside), I got to see the lake, the farms, the fells, and even ‘Wild Cat Island’. Bucket List – tick.

Granted, once I got past the village and back on wider roads, the entire world was out in full force. Traffic was backed up for miles, luckily for me in the opposite direction. It reminded me of Grand Bend on a long weekend. I had planned on lunch in one of the villages, but took one look at the cars, cyclists, and pedestrians, and decided that the Swallows & Amazons would have to do without me this year. Back home to Scotland we went.

But I am glad I got to see this region; now when I re-read the books, the scenery will be more vivid in my mind’s eye.

Dara Ó Briain is probably my favourite stand-up comedian. Well, second to Bob Newhart, of course. He tours mainly the UK, Scandinavia, and Australia, so I’d only ever seen him on YouTube. But a few years ago he was doing a North American tour, so I bought a ticket for his Toronto gig, March 30th, 2020. That’s March 30th 2020. So much for that. The show was postponed, then cancelled, then, when he finally returned to Canada, I had left for Scotland. Then this year he started back at UK venues, and when I heard there was a show mid-May in Blackburn, about 2 1/2 hours south of my new home, well, I bought a ticket and planned a 2-day road trip.

The road trip was going to take me through the Lake District, considered to be some of the most beautiful countryside in all of Great Britain (think Beatrix Potter, Wordsworth). I checked out some of the towns and villages to visit in that region and yesterday morning, with the promise of a few nice days of weather, we headed south. We left the motorway near Kendal, and started wending our way in & out, up & down, and all around beautiful lakes, spectacular hillsides, and rolling farmland.

There were a number of unusual sheep-sightings along the way (and this from someone who has lived in Orkney). The first was: as I was driving along one quiet country lane, a ewe was slamming her side against a stone wall. Just as I pulled up alongside, she succeeded in knocking over a bunch of stones, then led her twins and a couple of friends on a jail-break, out onto the road. This is a 60mph narrow country road, so I thought she was making a big mistake, but that didn’t seem to matter to her. I crept by them (getting quite the stink eye from the older sheep), and I drove on slowly, wondering what to do – I mean, I wasn’t going to stop the car in the middle of a blind curve, get out and start herding sheep on the lam. Around the next bend was a sign to a farm with a phone number on it, so I pulled over, called the number and left a very odd message on the answering machine. Here’s hoping that was enough.

Later on I saw a sheep sitting down. I know that doesn’t sound like much, but this sheep was sitting on her haunches. Not standing on all fours, or fully prone in the grass, but sitting all alone in a field with her bum on the ground, and her front legs straight (picture a full-sized dog, sitting waiting for a treat). I didn’t know they did that, so I looked it up. In all likelihood, she’s pregnant with twins. The things I learn.

The last odd sheep-sighting was a sheep bridge. The Lake District is a combination of farming and tourism, so in the nicer weather, the roads are very busy. So I guess some farmers have dealt with this by building what look like pedestrian walkways over the highways (think the pedestrian walkway between BMO Field & Ontario Place over the Lakeshore). I was sitting in stop & go traffic on the A590 as a procession of sheep casually, strolled across the highway, high overhead, on their own special bridge.

I did eventually make it to the show, which was excellent. I think Dara is hilarious, and the rest of the audience clearly felt the same, so it was a great evening. I had taken a cab from the hotel to the hall and back again, and each time the driver indicated he would prefer cash. No prob. And each time, the driver looked at the Scottish £10 note I had given him and questioned its validity. But both times they accepted my promise that it was legal tender (which it is – I just didn’t tell them they’d probably need to go to a bank branch to get it changed for ‘English’ currency, as most shops in England won’t accept Scottish notes).

A new boiler has been installed and I now have heat. Heat, glorious heat. And hot water. Imagine! This is living.

But I have a few bones to pick – certainly not with my cousins who have moved mountains to turn this house into a show home in time for me to move in, or even this house specifically, but with British houses in general. Brits just seem to make some things more complicated.

Let’s start with the laundry, shall we? I now have a wonderful, brand new, working beautifully, installed washing machine. Yay! Still don’t understand why I can’t just choose the length of time that I want, or the water temperature that I want, which bugs the hell out of me – I wonder if Brits even know what it’s like to have a washer that’s not fully programmed with a dozen different cycle/time/temp presets – but on the whole, I am happy, happy about my new washer. Of course, I’m not crazy about having baskets of clothing & linens sitting around the kitchen on laundry day (’cause that’s where they keep the washers here), and this time my dryer is out in the garage. Tucked in a back corner, looking 40+ years old, and just generally kinda creepy. The last two houses also had their laundry quirks; it just seems to come with the territory. The assumption here is that I will hang most of my laundry outside, which is fine, except for two things: (1) towels never dry as soft on the line as they do in a dryer; and (2) it’s Scotland so it rains six days out of seven. Viv told me there’s indoor racks somewhere in this house; I just haven’t found them yet, so am reduced to using the line and running outside as soon as I notice it’s raining (usually 10 minutes too late to save my knickers).

Heating. I have lived in three houses here: the first had slow-acting in-floor heating, the second had inadequate forced-air heating, and now I’ve got a boiler with radiators. So far, this is the coziest, yet most complex. As well as a central programmable thermostat (just like at home), each radiator has its own adjustable knob. I’m not sure how these two components work together – will have to get Viv to explain it to me. But the real treat? The day after the new boiler was installed, at 5:45 a.m. someone started playing ping pong in my front hall. I woke to the sounds of a ping pong ball being hit back and forth. Nooo, of course it wasn’t, that’s silly – it seems that radiators make all sorts of interesting noises as the pipes fill up; each morning is now a different ‘alarm clock’. As well as table tennis, I’ve been woken by what sounded like a bathtub overflowing onto a tile floor (I don’t have a bathtub), a clicking noise like a cicada (I thought it was my tinnitus at first), and this morning? the sound of a puppy with its head caught in the banister. Who needs a classic iphone ringtone at 6am when you have radiators? Oh, and it seems I have to learn how to bleed the radiators too. Uh huh. (But I’m warm. Did I mention that I’m warm?)

Why do Brits hate screens? Or are they afraid of them? Maybe no one has shown them how they work? This house, like my others (in fact, like any UK house I’ve been in) doesn’t have screens. What this house has huge picture windows that my uncle built so they could see Tinto Hill from any room; it has a stunning new front door, gunmetal blue with a frosted window; and it has these massive bi-fold glass doors onto the back garden (think French doors that open reeaal wide). But not a screen to be seen. Why? It’s not because they don’t have insects (believe me, Scotland has insects). Sunday morning was so nice I opened the living room windows. Next thing I knew, a wasp the size of a parakeet was swooping around my head. I miss screens.

Showers. Okay, these are the bane of my existence. I never have problems at home; whether at a friend’s house or in a hotel anywhere in North America, I can always work the shower. Not here. And I know it’s not just me; twenty years ago two friends & I needed a tutorial from the Pimlico hotel owner on showering, and my friends from Minnesota & Oxford concur – shower controls are all bonkers. Well, my cousin has installed a lovely new bathroom here: sleek new fixtures, grey tiled floor, and a lovely big walk-in shower stall with both a handheld wand and a rain-head shower – the room looks lovely. Now, think about this: when you get into the shower at home, you stand off to one side, turn the shower on, and wait maybe 10 seconds for the water to heat up before stepping into the stream. But we’re in new territory here; once the boiler was installed, it was time for my first shower in several days (don’t ask, a girl does what a girl has to do), so off I went. Okay. The shower controls are on the far wall, the water takes a good 30+ seconds or so to warm up, there are the two shower heads, and I have never used the controls. So I did the obvious: I took an umbrella into the shower with me for my maiden voyage as it were. We avoided scalds, ice-flows, and I figured out how to turn on only one shower head at a time. Ta-da!

I was up before 6 a.m. to take Scout for a good, long walk, because that was all she was going to get once the coverage started at 7:30. Settled into the Command Central corner of the couch, with tea, breakfast, remote control – all systems go. Then the plumbers arrived at 8:00 a.m. to install the new boiler in the loft. Oops, I’d forgotten about that.

I had made note of the main time frames for the day: the procession, the arrival, the investiture, the fly-over, etc.. And the head plumber told me his workers would be finishing around 2 p.m. Perfect – that was during a lull in the schedule – excellent. I settled back into my seat and for the most part I was able to ignore them and focus on the matter at hand – railing against the English for stealing our Stone of Destiny (don’t get me started), critiquing the women’s outfits, questioning why some of those people had even been invited, watching for Prince Harry, and mocking such items as the Golden Spurs, the Bracelets of Sincerity & Wisdom, and the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch – oh wait, that last item may not have been used at the Abbey. There was a lot of hammering coming from above, sort of a background staccato to the marching of the soldiers along the Mall.

And then, right before noon, just as we were getting to the big moment of the day, the actual investiture, I could sense that the workmen were wrapping up. Splendid, of course they were. And, much as I had anticipated, they wanted me to go up to the loft with them to see how everything worked. Really? Right now? A once every seventy years event is happening, and you want to show me a stop cock, and a relief valve, and whatever else is up there? They definitely did not have too much sympathy for me. For many Scots today was a non-event or worse. These guys were working on Coronation Saturday, their boss was off golfing, and at recent football matches and on the streets of Glasgow chants of “You can shove your coronation up your arse.” could be heard. So, no push back from me; I meekly followed them upstairs and listened to their instructions.

Anyhoo, all was resolved, and I was able to watch the bits I missed on BBC iPlayer later on. I made my quiche, drank some wine, and generally speaking, I’ve had a lovely day. I hope the King has too.

I’m not much of a monarchist – it seems archaic and antiquated, and to my Canadian eyes, the idea of one person or one family being ‘better’ than others simply due to bloodline is elitist, and classist, and, dare I say it, stupid. Having said that, I wouldn’t miss the Coronation for the world. My mother was a royalist, and the Reid women have braved time differences and gotten up before 5 a.m. for every wedding, funeral, and jubilee since Princess Anne got married (the first time). I love the pomp, the pageantry, the parades – I can’t wait for tomorrow’s coronation. Yes, yes, I know I’m a hypocrite, so sue me.

My parents met at a coronation ball 70 years ago. Dad was in the actual queen’s parade, representing his regiment, and as soon as the parade ended, he hotfooted it to the train station and was back in Bellshill in time for the local coronation dance, where he met Norma. So coronations hold a soft spot in mine and my sisters’ hearts.

I have it all mapped out (of course you do, Lainey, of course you do). I will have BBC live on the telly in the front room, with a wee tech & food station set up around me on the sofa: laptop for when I’m bored (those hymns can go on forever), numerous cups of tea, lunch, and on the other half of the couch: Scout’s blanket for her to sit beside me. And because I still have my old laptop and I will have to go into the kitchen from time to time, I have set it up on the kitchen counter, open to BBC iPlayer, so I won’t miss a moment. No, that’s not OTT, so there.

Seventy years ago a British chef was asked to come up with a dish to celebrate the big event, and ‘Coronation Chicken’ was born: chicken with a curry mayo and either mango or apricots. This time around it’s to be Coronation Quiche, made with spinach, broad beans, and tarragon. I’m not the world’s biggest broad bean fan, and there’s asparagus and tomatoes in the fridge, so I will make a cheddar, asparagus, and tomato quiche, from scratch. Oh, and there’s Orkney gin and Italian Prosecco in the fridge.

Right then, I’m all set, let’s get this show on the road!

My cousin & CIL left for Kent Tuesday evening (they were 3 hours on the tarmac at Glasgow airport and not home until 2am – well that sucked). They spent five days ‘getting the house ready’ for me – I just can’t get over all the work they’ve done. They never seem to rest, working like demons from morning to night, which makes me wonder if we really are related after all.

The house isn’t quite ‘done’ yet – the afore-mentioned broken boiler needs replacing, the afore-mentioned hatch stills dangles in the middle of the hall, and there are tweaks and minor repairs that the joiner needs to tackle. But it looks fab, and I’m almost done unpacking. My furniture looks quite good in the rooms (although I keep moving the desk from one place to another – I think I’ve finally landed on its home for now). I’ve just decided not to worry about where Viv would like things – I’m going to set things up my way, and the day after I leave, she can move everything where she would like them. Of course our tastes are different, but we both seem to recognise that, and aren’t offended by it.

I am so excited by the kitchen. My first kitchen in Kirkwall was fine, but I bought only the bare minimum of appliances and cookware, etc… for my two years here; the second kitchen had more dishware, utensils, etc… as it was rented fully furnished, but the stove and oven had no numbers on the dials and indicators, so cooking was a challenge. But here, a brand new induction stovetop (hob), a full-sized convection oven, lots of bakeware, serving dishes, nice pots & pans – well, I have cooked, and baked, and made something different every day. All while standing & working at my huge picture windows, overlooking the Clyde Valley in the distance.

I will be living in my late Uncle Ian’s house for the remainder of my stay in the UK.  He built this house in the village of Braidwood over 50 years ago (I still remember as a little girl being brought out here to play in the fields with my cousins while my uncle showed Dad all the work that they were doing), and until the flood damage last December, it was a simple, sweet, very dated house filled with older furniture, worn carpeting, and lots of memories.  But the flood put paid to the first two, and slightly dented the last.

My cousin is an amazing woman – since January she has hired a contractor, supervised the renovations from Kent, and, when I pulled up to the house yesterday, she & her hubby were doing a major clean-up in the garden.  And what a pay-off – the house is stunning!  Bright, light, airy, and modern.  Oh, and cold.  It seems poor heating and icy water has followed me from Pipersquoy Cottage down to Lanarkshire.  The house needs a new boiler, which is coming on Saturday – until then it’s cold showers and space heaters.

But I don’t care; I can wait.  This house is absolutely lovely!  Everyone who knows them agrees: Uncle Ian & Aunt Margaret would have loved what Viv has done here.  I know I do.

(I’m less enamoured of the loft: it’s accessed by a ceiling hatch in the hall with a dropped ladder.  The hatch latch is broken and I am currently living with this gaping hole in the ceiling, and gusts of cold air coming from the uninsulated attic.)

I’m really not joking about this idea of a carefully thought-out itinerary for my last days on Orkney and the trip south.  This would be the last time I would ever be in Orkney and, in all likelihood, my last trip down the A9 and through the Cairngorms, so I wanted it all to count.

Our first stop after getting off the ferry was a hike to a ruined castle I’d just learned about: Castle Sinclair Girnigoe (just past Papigoe, near Staxigoe – God, I love Scottish place names).  It was absolutely stunning.  And of course I had left my phone in the car, so no pictures.  As we have done every time we’ve driven this route, we stopped at the beautiful beach at Golspie for a walk. Then lunch at a wee pub on Loch Ness that I had visited a few times before, then off to my favourite hotel in Scotland, The Boat Inn in Boat of Garten.  There was a wedding reception going on, the women in everything from wool dressy suits, to gauzy summer dresses, to glitzy cocktail gowns, and the men all in suits: either with kilt, or with tartan trews (trousers).  Scout was in her element, adored by drinky Scots.

The next day was my favourite place to stop along the A9 – The House of Bruar – it’s kind of the Harrod’s of the Highlands: posh clothing, gentlemen’s sporting wear (hunting, fishing, and golf it seems are the only truly acceptable sports for a gentleman), food halls, restaurants & cafes, and a garden centre.  All nestled in the blindingly beautiful Cairngorm Mountains, and with a picturesque hiking trail that Scout and I have walked every time we’ve driven to or from Orkney; this time was no exception.  Then off we went down the highway, away from the peedie villages and quiet roads of the highlands, off to the busy motorways and aggressive drivers of the lowlands, and arrived at my next home: the village of Braidwood, in the Clyde Valley.

Well, it’s done. I’ve said good-bye to Orkney. It was December 2019 when I got it into my head to move to Scotland; January 2020 when I decided on Orkney over Shetland or the Western Isles; we’ll gloss over COVID; then April 2021 when I got my British passport. I left Canada on October 4, 2021; arrived in Kirkwall on the 14th and took possession of my house on the 18th. I furnished my peedie hoose in Papdale; met people and toured the islands; moved into Pipersquoy Cottage in October 2022; said good bye to good friends and favourite landmarks over the past few weeks; and am now sailing out of Stromness Harbour.

I got up early and headed out on deck in order to watch us leave the dock and head into the Pentland Firth, but now I’m back in my cabin typing this and getting ready to drive south to Braidwood.

Yes, I’m sad. I’m not sad because I’m leaving Orkney; I always knew this was at most a two-year stay. I’m sad because I’m leaving Orkney now. I wanted another spring, summer, & autumn here on the islands. Last year I was still finding my footing, learning the ropes. Last year my social network was much smaller, and the people I did know were what I would have called acquaintances. But that has all changed. These people have become dear friends, people whose company I have come to treasure, and whom I will miss very much. I would have loved longer with them, more time exploring all there is to see in Orkney, and hosting friends and family over the summer months. So yes, I am sad. Oddly, this morning I wasn’t choked up at all as we pulled away from the dock and I had my last view of the Mainland. It was yesterday, as I confidently drove along winding country lanes that had scared me 19 months ago that I felt myself tearing up (not too many tears, though – those roads are still kinda scary); or when we walked out to the cliffs and stood in the sunshine looking at the spectacular views all around; or even as I drove past the Cathedral one last time – that’s when I reflected on my experiences here and realised how much I would miss all of this.

And this is a final farewell; I won’t be back. Yes, Orkney is wonderful, and I wish I were staying longer. But I’ve done it. I’ve ‘done’ Orkney. There is so much else in the world to see, so many more adventures to have. And the next adventure starts in about 40 minutes, when we dock at Scrabster, and I drive south on the A9 for the last time, heading to my new home for the remainder of 2023 in Braidwood, Lanarkshire.

Good bye Orkney. (Okay, I admit it – I did choke up typing those last three words.)